


ripple

by Ezfa



Category: Naruto
Genre: Character Study, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Kirigakure, Ninja, Shinobi, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vouyerism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezfa/pseuds/Ezfa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took them a bit to realize just how deep they were in. — #utahota #future!au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**{ Foreword }** _

_**~ About~** _

_**~ Editor's Note ~** _

— _This is your official red alert to those sensitive to: **smut** and **voyeurism**. If you read beyond this point, that's **your** problem._

_In any case, this, more than anything was initially intended to be nothing more than a self-indulgent experimental 'mature' writing challenge for myself. But of course, being me, I don't do oneshots – so this angsty thing was born. It is now **less** smutty and more character study-ish, but regardless, it's fun all the same. Hopefully it isn't too cringe inducing, but first attempts almost always are so I shouldn't expect anything different; I'd like to hear thoughts. Please assume *Waifine's*  Sir Utakata, We Must Both Live is an established canon for this work, just to avoid confusion._


	2. 001 ; Him

**ripple  
** _ **001 ; him** _

* * *

 

“What am I going to do with you, Hotaru?”

By now, a conversation like this is not out of the ordinary. Already, he forgets what exactly she's done to warrant that kind of response from him, but he doesn't mind. Even at the age of thirty _something,_ he is a man of predictability; he likes routine, he _likes_ simplicity that life has to offer and _keeping_ it that way. But Utakata knows that he lost any right to complain about the lack of order in his life when he met her ten or so years ago – especially when the only response he had always been able to extract from her throughout the years is a demure tilt of her head and a laugh. It's irritating, so he always tells himself to _let it go._ His breath hitches in his throat when she pauses, and there's an unusual gleam in her eyes that unsettles him. Bright teal; her eyes are a bright teal, a fact that he's always known, but somehow, is especially pronounced in the agonizing two seconds that pass. He feels like she knows a secret, and she hangs it over his head like he's naive. It's lost on him why he feels a knot in his stomach.

“Whatever you want. I won't complain either way.” She takes a deliberate, slow sip of her tea, not once breaking eye contact.

He says nothing, and the moment escapes them both. They resume fruitless conversation, making small talk about Kiri's weather this week, and how she can't handle her superior in the academy, a rotten hag who she swears has it out for her. He only _hms_ and nods his head in acknowledgment and polite mild interest. He mentions something about her training, but the words slip through before he can process them, not even remembering exactly what he's going on about; he exchange is fuzzy, muffled and seemingly unimportant, but he goes through the motions regardless. Before he knows it, she's supposedly running late, and rushing through the door. Without turning her way, he waves a hand in farewell. He ignores how he can feel her gaze burning in the back of his head, and then the door closes. He is left with a bitter taste in his mouth, and he doesn't convince himself the slight strange conversation had been nothing more than just that. He doesn't acknowledge how his heart thundered through the entire exchange, but life goes on and he refuses to think more on the subject.

As per daily routine, she doesn't come home until late afternoon. Unlike her, he isn't on a set work schedule, opting long ago instead to be an on-call nin; only when the Mizukage summons him, does he report for duty, and it sits perfect well for someone like him. It gives him a legitimate excuse to be stuck at home dealing with mission reports and dossiers. It's not uncommon to find him with paperwork scattered about on the kitchen table. He doesn't look up when she walks in, only giving off a small inaudible _'hey'._ He stops leafing through reports when she passes by; her perfume hits him like a wave, and automatically he mentally recites the mixture of citrus, rain and her natural scent. He blinks when he realizes she is speaking to him, and turns to look at her. “I.. I'm sorry, I didn't catch that.”

Her pout isn't lost on him, and he has to force his vision to focus on her face. “You never listen to me, Utakata.” _Utakata?_ When had she dropped the suffix? When had she started referring to him by only his name? “I asked if there was any updates on Harishima's case.” The name is vaguely familiar, and after a moment he remembers that it's not a man, but rather a specific title; Harishima was the education project funded by the Mizukage herself; since the events of the last war and their reputation as a whole, more effort had been made specifically to have a more beneficial and _safe_ system towards their genin. The project is currently, in essence, a list of several D and C rank missions (which, frankly, didn't _exist_ in Kiri) extracted from villages and nations from various locations outside The Land of Water. They were adopting a more _Konoha-_ esque curriculum. It takes him a full second to process her words though, and not long after, his attention is brought downward to his papers again. “That's not my department, you know that. I don't deal with the education system, just the missions themselves.” Just as they spoke, his gaze lands some of the possible upcoming missions – retrieving lost pets, doing chores and manual labor; unheard of until now and it almost seems silly. He knows the practices of his village used to be brtual, and he doesn't wish the suffering onto any other child or family – but, almost in a twisted way, there's _pride._ He's half resisting the urge to say something along the lines of _back in my day, it was every kid, man and woman for themselves._ His thoughts are interrupted when he hears an annoyed grunt from her, and in turn a small smirk of amusement on his end.  
  
“I _know_ you don't; but it doesn't mean you can't occasionally hear _of_ it.” He knows exactly what she's implying, and he doesn't spare her a second thought.  
  
“For the last time, I _won't_ snoop around, _buttering_ up the Mizukage for details on where the education curriculum stands just for the sake of your beloved genin. If you're that eager, then simply just talk to-”

“You know very well that I can't; I'm not 'of rank' to know the specifics. If had known that your village was this harsh, I would've made us go to Konoha instead!” She's always been dramatic, but despite his claims, he indulges her a few minutes after.

“The paperwork has already been sent.” He doesn't miss her blissful smile, and it takes him a few moments to realize just how much he has done to _preserve_ it. She asks for nothing more, opting to talk about how they need to cut down on the hot water in the shower. At that point of the conversation, he's already lost interest and her voice is nothing more than a melodic tune in the background. He's always enjoyed her talking, her hand gestures and facial expressions; she can recite news as if she liked to think she was there, and still somehow make it seem like it had been the most exciting story in her life. Her voice slices through the air with such a pleasant tune, it rings softly though his ears – he isn't even reading what's on the paper in front of him. It takes him a second to realize he's smiling lightly.

“What do you want for dinner?”

He says it without even thinking. “Whatever you want. I won't complain.” There's an awkward pause, and for a second, the man is paranoid. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, in their _present_ situation, there's a lever pulled, or a switch that's been turned on. It hits him harder than he ever thought possible. But he can't wrap his head around it. He's already raising his hand to his mouth, making a motion to cough in a vain effort to make the moment pass. But before he can, just a fraction of a second before he can contemplate any further, she lets out a laugh, and he looks up.

Only to find that same glint in her eye, looking at him like she knows something she shouldn't. She saunters off without another word, to the kitchen. “Oh Utakata, what am I going to do with you?” Her question resonates deep into his head.

He suspects something changes.

 

* * *

 

She insists that it's a special occasion, but he insists the opposite. _It's your_ _birthday_ _, Utakata – you can't_ _not_ _celebrate it!_ He never bothered to tell her in the entirety of their relationship, and he had been so accustomed to the fact. But as always, she surprises him in spite of himself. How she found out, he isn't sure – but with both their respective jobs, maybe he should have expected it sooner. If this had been a couple some years ago, when they were only _starting_ to get to know each other and their quirks, he would've not hesitated to shut her out immediately with a harsh retort on how his birthday had been nothing to celebrate. His existence was a stain on the entirety of his birth family _and_ the Mizukage's family alike. He often forgets that he's not a Jinchuuriki anymore, and thus he can come up with no real argument to counter hers.

“I… I've never celebrated it.” It's the best response he can come up with, and he tries so hard to keep the flush of his embarrassment from his face. It doesn't help that her response, in turn, is to _smile_ at him like he's a helpless little kid. She has that distinct power over him, even when they met, she always had a way to turn any sense he had into tangles.

“First time for everything. Come on, we can go out to eat. It'll be my treat.” He almost responds that he likes her cooking better, that he doesn't _need_ to go out to some fancy place, and that he can pay for his own food _thank you very much,_ but he knows that he's already lost the argument even before it had truly begun. So instead, he just tags along wordlessly – she responds with a light observation on how he's being compliant; that he's growing a soft spot for her. It takes everything in him not to roll his eyes. Considering they've been acquainted for a decade, her statement is redundant. It's a spur of the moment decision – not too early in the day, but not late enough that they wouldn't want to leave the apartment. He has a feeling, specifically, that she told him nothing about her plans to force him to go out because he wouldn't have obliged. Humorlessly, he realizes that she would rather have him out un-showered and looking like a mess than not having him out at all. They make their way through the village, merely enjoying the bright unusual sunny weather for the day, and just the comfort of each other's presence is more than enough. He appreciates her efforts, remaining silent as she rambles on about the gossip going on at work, but because she's trying just a little bit harder today for his sake, he engages more than he normally would. Her smile is contagious, and he can't remember the last time he's been this social, even with Hotaru.

“So, did you have anything particular in mind, or did you just want to rub in the fact that I'm getting old and parade me around the village like some novelty?” It would be a lie to say that he hadn't taken notice of just how many people turned to stare occasionally. It's a stupid thing to notice, but he can't help the slight suspicion that maybe, they both are presenting themselves to the world as something they aren't. He doesn't why that bothers him, and really, _it shouldn't._ But he also can't help but notice just how _close_ she's been acting. She'd swat his shoulder playfully if he said something unwarranted, or she'd elbow him in the ribs if he hadn't been paying attention. Meaningless gestures, but somehow, _meaningful._

“I've no idea what you're talking about – you aren't old.”

He gives her a look, and after a slight cough, she corrects herself: “… not… _that_ old, anyway.”

“Thought so.” She tries to hit him again, but this time, just to spite her, as well as being the ninja he is, he grabs her wrist effortlessly, holding it there and sporting a _mightier-than-thou_ smirk. He feels a jolt of electricity at the touch, but he doesn't break character and they look at each other – and for whatever reason, the moment seems to pass too slowly for his liking. And then, he is back to being _him,_ and slowly, he lets go of her hand, smirk diminishing to nothing more than his familiar blank slate. He turns away from her, willing for the thundering in his chest to _stop._ But she already passes him and he left looking at her back – his gaze follows downward, and she doesn't seem to take notice of it or what had just happened a minute ago. She calls for him to _hurry up and_ _keep_ _up, old man! You aren't getting any younger!_

He swallows the bitter taste in his mouth, and trails after her.

 

* * *

 

Later on the week, he finds himself gone from the apartment for almost a week.

It's not too unusual, but on top of verbally communicating that he would be gone _plus_ a letter or two on who to get in touch with if she needed anything _plus_ the strangely out of character incessant questions of _Hotaru, are you_ _sure_ _you don't need anything? I'm_ _not_ _going to be around for a few days, if at that._ He can tell that she doesn't mind, and, if he knew better, would even suspect that she _likes_ the attention he's giving her.

“Stop acting like a grandpa. I'll be fine – I'm not a kid anymore, you know. You don't need to baby me.” Maybe he hallucinates it, but there's a slight edge at her final sentence. But after a second, her radiant smile betrays any underlying notion he may have noticed (or _hallucinated)_ , and he just shrugs instead. He mentally runs through the mission diagnosis; thankfully, for this particular assignment, he is not the captain. He might have some backup, most likely just two men trailing behind him. It's an A rank mission, and despite various discussions with Mei as to _why_ he isn't allowed to go on S rank and his counter argument that he _isn't_ a Jinchuuriki anymore, she still implies without saying that she _still_ doesn't fully trust him. In Kiri, once a rogue nin, _always_ a rogue nin – strangely however, he always sees a _very_ similar glint in _her_ eyes before he's ushered out like a nuisance. He had been entrusted with recollecting intel on a particular non-Kiri native shinobi that has to deliver some documents to another country – it's Utakata's mission to make sure he didn't profit off that information; a simple spy (and, _if the circumstances come to it,_ _terminate_ _)_ mission.

There's irony in this.

He's already near the entrance when he comes to a halt. The two men that are most likely his backup slash overseers look at him with irritation and questioning. He at least has the decency to feel slightly sheepish before he begins turning back with a _I'll be back_ under his breath. He recons he ought to feel embarrassed, or at the very least, _bad_ that he's wasted a good ten minutes – but instead, he feels irritation. He'd forgotten his steel pipe; his main and only needed weapon. When he reaches the door of his apartment, slightly out of breath and a near scowl on his face, his fist is in midair; caught in the motion of knocking on the door. But a second before he does so, he remembers that Hotaru had been going out at the same time he had, and most likely the door is locked – and he left his key inside. _Are you kidding me?_ With a suck of his teeth, he makes his way to the other side of the unit; there's a window by Hotaru's room, and easily opened from the outside. She hardly maintains it closed anyway, and he convinces himself that he isn't invading her space in anyway; both being ninja, he knows very well just how nosy _she_ can be anyway. However, the sight of the closed window makes him blink, and he pauses before reaching a hand out to grasp the latch. There's a flicker of movement in the inside, and he gazes up.

He freezes.

The sight before him swarms his head like a genjutsu, like something that just isn't _real._ But his throat is tight, and it gets harder to obscure the truth —her hair is unkempt and sprawled against the clear sheets of her bed, and her eyes are completely shut. She's twisting and churning about, but her overall position remains the same; her hand is lost in its' venture down south, hidden under the fabric of her lack leggings, but he can see it move; a down and up motion. She's barely visible in the dark-lit of her confined space, but he can make out the flush of her cheeks and the ecstasy shown by the way she arches her back. He can't look away, though; his eyes are _stuck_ on the action alone – she isn't even naked, but just her _doing_ this sends something down his spine and dries his mouth. He's mesmerized, slightly starting when he realizes her movements are getting faster, more intense. Every ripple of her body sends a jolt of _something_ in his own; his heart deafens any possible noise she makes, too focused on her movements. It's like everything around him fades into nothing but black, and all he sees is _her._ His logical side has long been shut out, and instead he stands perfectly still, momentarily lost in the sight before him. His hand twitches, and he finds himself wondering what or _who_ exactly is going through her mind; he's incessant, and he's suddenly _desperate_ to know what she's thinking about, because whatever _it_ is, it seems to be _working_ very well. He forces the knot in his throat to go down, almost painfully, and though his eyes try to focus, his vision is blurry all the same. It's like his mind is refusing to believe, to _see,_ that this is indeed Hotaru – his student. His _much_ younger student.

He feels like a voyeur.

Her hips thrust in a slight rhythm against an invisible and willing participant, but when she jerks and stops, giving off a final arch of her back as her face melts into bliss, he finally is able to decipher a word she mouths:

_Utakata._

He jumps back, making sure to put a solid distance between him and their apartment, and around the corner behind a tree, he staggers down. He pays no mind to the rough trunk scraping his gray vest, or how absolutely disoriented he looks when his head is bent downward focused on the ground beneath him. Much to his shock, he's out of breath as if he was in some sort of fight and his mouth remains hidden behind his hand. Somewhere, in the back of his mind he realizes that he didn't get his weapon and that he's already wasted over another ten minutes, and his team are more than ready to report his incompetence to the Mizukage. After a moment, he collects himself, and is determined to go through the next days as if he saw _nothing._ He ignores the glares sent his way and the interrogation from his comrades. He tries to make his mind a blank slate.

_Nothing happened._

He finds it ridiculous that he thinks he can trick fool himself. But he tries, anyway – his efforts result in nothing more than thoughts of her writhing against the bed at night.

And maybe, he imagines he is there with her.

 

* * *

 

A week turns into two weeks. Two long weeks and a mission half completed along with an earful from Mei. He had been a disappointment and he would be on suspension for a month or so for failing so miserably, which means no income. Which also means that he has to talk to Hotaru about their new financial situation. It means that he has to explain exactly _why_ he won't be receiving income. It means that he'll have to explain _why_ he failed his mission. It means that he'll have to come up with a joke of an excuse with a poker face, pretending that he hadn't intruded on her privacy. How, at night, he had been a poor excuse of a man, resisting the urge to sate the itch that built down there. How he imagined her, _his student ten years his junior,_ in various sickening perverted fantasies when he was dreaming; how he denied himself the most primitive of pleasures and forced himself to let off steam by sparring until he injured himself, and how the only thing he repeatedly saw was her _bright teal eyes and—_

_Damn it._

He lingers on the doorstep of their apartment for a full ten minutes. It's dead at night, though technically morning, and he feels absolutely disgusting. He half expects to run into her again doing… _something,_ and he doesn't know how he's going to keep a straight face around her anymore. But he reassures himself that this, _this whole thing,_ is a fleeting phase. He's sick in the head, a pervert, a freak – and strangely enough, he's okay with telling himself that. But Utakata knows it's more than that.

When he finally steps aside, he doesn't expect her to be up, much less be sitting on the couch facing the window like she's barely heard him come in. He blinks, closing the door behind him, is immediately weary despite his exhaustion. He waits for a long moment, trying to muster up a semblance of courage, a hint of _normalcy_ into him before speaking. But he also wants to know just _what is going on? Why is she_ _up_ _?_ He opens his mouth to utter her name, but it's almost as if she _knows_ he's about to do so, because in that next second, she turns to him. Any hint of normalcy is quickly thrown out the window when he sees her eyes are all but leaking.

There's that gleam in her eyes again.

“Utakata,” she whispers and he is _so ashamed and disgusted with himself_ when it sends a shiver to his spine, and his mind begins to reminisce on _two weeks ago and how she—_ “You're home, I'm… I'm glad.” Her tone is so unbelievably _broken_ and diminished that he really starts to become confused and lost. He doesn't understand, and he's about to voice it, but she's already embracing him like he's her lifeline. She's shaking and he can feel her soft sobs wracking through him in small waves. He notices a paper crumpled in her hand, so much that her fist has turned white from the sheer effort of keeping it in place. He hugs her back, shameless in the fact that he's enjoying this, her body pressed flush against his, but still so _confused and_ _lost_ _and he doesn't_ _unde_ _r_ _stand_ _why she's broken and he can't find a way to make her feel better without probably making her feel_ _worse_ _; he's never been good at this kind of thing and—_

But when he rubs her arms soothingly, telling her that everything is going to be alright, he is able to slowly peel away the crumpled paper from her grip, quickly dissecting the content before his insides freeze. He can make out a few words, but only one is prominent: _Tonbei._

He finally understands, and holds her tighter than ever.

 

* * *

 

He finds that she doesn't much mind his financial situation. She's _Hotaru,_ and in a very Hotaru way, her preconceived preacher-like optimism rolls off in waves. _“Oh, that's alright – I'm sure we'll be fine with the rent. It's not like it's your fault, Utakata.”_ He doesn't bother to fill her in on the details, and it barely clears his conscience – but his attention has been on her since _that_ night. She's almost convinced herself that she's alright, and he can tell that she's not dealing with it appropriately. She's been using him as a substitute for her pain; but he goes along with it, for her own sake, for her mental health. He can't… _doesn't_ know what else to do beyond that point. But in the back of his head, he knows he's using it as his own justification, and he feels ashamed. She is oblivious to his own inner turmoils, despite seeming like her whole attention is on him, and he finds that she's becoming even more close to him. It doesn't sit well with him, but he plays along.

When she comes home one day, he can see the exhaustion and despair in her eyes – yet when her gaze lands on him, she lights up like she has just seen her save and grace. “There's a show later tonight. Want to watch with me?”

The question surprises him, because in all the years they've known each other, moving from inn to inn to apartment, never once has she actively invited him to watch something with her. It's always assumed that if he wanted, he would. But the look in her eyes leaves him no alternative; before long, both are seated on the couch.

Utakata hadn't really expected Hotaru to be one of _those_ women.

The last time he saw Hotaru this excited for anything was back when she had been desperate to get him to be her teacher. As a matter of fact, her eyes are sparkling with glee, she's biting her lower lips to the point where, if she isn't careful, could do some serious damage, and she's shuffling on the seat of the couch.Though reluctantly, he admits that he's curious; he wants to know the appeal. _Icha Icha Paradise_ is what Hotaru said it was called.

Utakata is not impressed.

She hasn't noticed his lack of enthusiaism, or be bothered to acknowledge his look of disdain on the television screen. It's the exact kind of crap that made sane people like him want to heave his insides out, and then some, if only to get rid of any trace that he'd laid his eyes upon the abomination that people liked to call 'good storytelling'. How could people _stomach_ this garbage? He even feels _offended_ that she wanted to watch this. _Thankfully, finally,_ after what seemed hours, it goes to commercials, and it is then he takes a look at Hotaru. Her face is absolutely livid, and she's radiating furious energy that he could practically _feel_ in waves.

“Seriously, _what_ does Hideki see in that stupid woman?!” she shrieks, almost enough for the neighbors so start banging on the wall, he's sure. He doesn't doubt for a second that they're probably watching this garbage as well. “I mean, it's completely obvious that she's just _using_ him! And did you _see_ the look she gave to his _brother?!_ Those two are up to something, I just know it!” she rambles on, completely vivid and lively, completely unaware of Utakata's internal conflict with himself. On one hand, he's unpleasantly surprised that _this is the crap_ that people like to feed on nowadays... but on the other, he's amused that she would get so worked up over this kind of thing. He's more amused than he'd like to admit, and absentmindedly, he lets his lips quirk. He releases a breath of laughter, Hotaru is the only one who could do that to him.

“Hotaru... are you seriously telling me _this_ is what you wanted to watch? _With me?_ ” he asks, any trace of mirth completely gone from his visage.

“You ask that like it's some sort of crime.” She shrugs. “We're both adults; it's just a dumb soap opera. It makes me laugh.”

“It's absolute fan service.” He persists further.

“It's quality storytelling.” she counters, a little too defensive for his liking.

He rolls his eyes, “Tch. What kind of 'quality storytelling' provides graphic make out scenes and exaggerated objectification of both sexes?”

“Passion. Ever heard of it?”

“ _Fanservice,_ Hotaru, complete and utter fanservice. People just look for excuses to have their perverted fantasies ignite, this is no exception. It's complete garbage laced with cheap overused plots and cliches that aims to please the sick pleasure that lurks in the disgusting minds of filthy people.” There's a pregnant pause after that, and for a good moment, he thinks that he finally got through her.

“You are such a prude.” She remarks dryly with a delicate scrunch of her nose.

And before he can even _register_ the infuriatingly embarrassing insult, the last commercial ends and he is quickly silenced by his student almost immediately. He is left with a biting tongue and reddened cheeks in indignation, glaring at the screen. Of course, a really _heavy_ scene comes up; though, clearly it's a 'make out' scene, it's intended to be... well, something else entirely. The moans become louder, the sounds become more annoying, the angles of the camera are zooming in too much, the music is just godawful and suddenly, _certain_ images are filling his mind again. He is brought back to a day, not too long ago, and the moaning and gasping in the background _doesn't_ help. He sees her sprawled against the cushions, panting heavily with a gorgeous blush against her cheeks, looking up with _wide teal eyes and—_

It's so painfully clear that he's completely uncomfortable, and he has half a mind to bolt. But then he ears a giggle. He turns only to find her blatantly _looking_ at him, delicate hand stifling her laughter, and her cheeks rosy. “You… you really _are_ a prude, Utakata!” She giggles some more at his expense, and despite his discomfort and annoyance, he smiles despite himself and, momentarily, it's a genuine and heartfelt atmosphere, not at all tainted with perversion.

“And you just pretend _not_ to be one.”

Slowly, she stops, and there's that _glint_ in her eyes making his heart roar in sudden panic. She pulls her legs in, resting her head against her knees with a secretive smile. “Whatever lets you sleep at night.”

Much to his dismay, he doesn't get sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

A couple of days later, he wakes up feeling awful.

Utakata struggles to open his eyes, his throat feels as dry as if it had not drank water in months, his heart is beating too fast and his head is pounding over and over again. His vision is hazy, his whole body feels ten times heavier and for the life of him, he can't will himself to move. He forces himself to move, if only a little. His legs slide over the mattress, but that's as far as he can get. His hair is covering his eyes and he's slouched; his body doesn't follow the instructions his mind is giving him, and it annoys him. Before he knows it, however, he's somehow making his way to the floor; he's falling to the ground. He can't even register what had happened as he somehow ends up on his side, arm outstretched for what was supposed to be opening the door. He emits a moan, a mixture of humiliation and indignation. Only one word escapes his mouth:

“Hotaru!”

Not long after, Hotaru lets out a pensive hmm at the sight of the thermometer, and, in less than a second, she has a cheeky smile. She looks to him apologetically, though he is almost sure that she isn't. “Well, Utakata, you know the drill,” she says, she places a container of medicine on the table next his bed. He's slouching, his face feels like it's going to fall off, and his expression isn't too friendly either. Hotaru doesn't seem to care and starts to fluff his pillows as she continues to talk. “You need plenty of rest, take your medicine, all that stuff. I'll bring your meals so don't worry about that. I'll also bring you a washcloth and warm water to place on your head. You just worry about getting some sleep, and I'll change it every couple of hours.” The more she rambles, the more annoyed he gets. He feels embarrassed enough that she had to help him up from the bed, especially in his morning attire, but now she's going on that he needs rest?

“What do you mean?” he wheezes.

She tilts her head and blows out the annoying strands of hair from her loose ponytail. She was in her morning attire as well. Placing a hand on her hip, she regards him cautiously. “Utakata, you're sick. I know you haven't gotten sick that much before, but surely it isn't a huge deal, right?” She giggles a little bit, but when her only response is a purse of his lips, she realizes that, _yeah it_ _is_ _a big deal._

“I don't..” he coughs, struggling to speak. His pride doesn't want him to. “I've never needed _help,_ you know.”

Hotaru just smiles clearly enjoying this, “There's a first time for everything. This will be good for you – maybe it'll help you appreciate me a bit more.” He doesn't need help to realize just how much he _does_ appreciate her, more than he'd ever like to admit. “And besides, you had to ask me for my help for just getting off the floor; so even if you didn't want my help, there's absolutely no way around it. You're temperature is at a striking 104, you know.”

“So?”

At his response, she frowns. “Utakata you're not getting out of bed. Now, you need rest-!” Hotaru is staring to get fed up, he can tell.

“I don't want to!” he's stubborn though.

“You don't have a choice! You're on suspension anyway, need I remind you!”

“I-!! You-..”

“ _Really?_ ” She deadpans. “Are you really going to argue with me?”

“I happen to-”

“Utakata, _enough_.” Before he can even try to respond, he feels a hand on his shoulder and he's suddenly back on the bed, looking up at Hotaru's angry face. “You're going to rest today, tomorrow and most likely, a few days after. Now, we could do this the easy way, where you do as I say and everything goes very nice and smooth. Or you can resist my commands, and I'll have to fight you every step of the way, and I _guarantee_ that you're not going to enjoy it.” He doesn't know if it's the fever, though he prefers it is, but there's something about the way she's glaring at him that compels him to look away, like a grounded teenager. His heart thundering against the chest and the flush on his face is from the fever, he viciously tells himself. It has nothing to do with the fact that her scent is mesmerizing, or that her morning messy blonde hair frames her pretty face almost perfectly. He's sick, he's hallucinating – not in his right state of mind. When he looks back to her eyes, staring him down like a cornered mouse, he can't help it.

“Fine.” He mumbles.

When he opens his eyes later that night, he's in a dream; there's a hand on his head, and automatically he knows it's her checking on him and closes his eyes. He would jolt awake if he isn't so exhausted because not a second after, her hand trails up to his face, burning everything she touches. He can't make sense of what's going on, and in his half- lucid state, he wants to ask – and then he feels a pair of lips on his cheek and a soft murmur of a _goodnight_ fills his ears. It's a dream, he convinces himself and he repeats this to himself even in the morning when she's long gone. Even when her scent is all over his sheets, all over _him._

The reality hits him hard, and he does everything in his power to make sure _nothing_ comes to fruition. When he gets better, he starts to grow distant intentionally – he leaves in the mornings before she does and comes back after she does; he spends his time training, walking around the village and even just _sleeping_ outside to avoid contact. He's busy, he tells her and quickly apologizes before he can see the look of hurt in her eyes. Utakata doesn't need to squint to see that she's been crying, and his suspicions are confirmed: he's her anchor from the pain of her family's recent death.

Only once, when he knows that she isn't in the unit, does he allow himself a sick pleasure in the confinement of his bedroom; it doesn't take long to get himself worked up, and it takes him even less to reduce himself to a withering pile of sated pleasure on his bed. He lost track on how much he had called out her name in _need._ He is left panting and he is disgusted with himself – not long after, he washes off in a cold shower, ashamed and horrified.

He avoids her even more after that.

 

* * *

 

In the middle of the night, he stays awake.

The rough fabric of the couch does nothing to bring him comfort; it's old and torn, but his attention is solely on the almost violent _pitter-patter_ of the rain hitting the window. It's a deafening sound, and he considers this quietly every so often before getting lost into it all over again. The skies are gray, dull and lackluster just like he remembers – just like when he was a child. Kiri, at least, stays consistent with its' weather. He stays completely unmoving, save for the light rise and fall of his chest every time he takes a breath. Hotaru always mentioned, throughout the years, that had it not been for his light breathing she would assume he was dead otherwise. There's a violent flash outside, and for a moment, it illuminates the darkness in the small living room, but he barely flinches. There's another flash, violently white and too bright – but a figure in his peripheral vision catches his attention, and he curses himself as he turns to look, knowing exactly who it is.

_She's beautiful._

It leaves a bitter taste in his palate, thinking like this – he refuses to trail his eyes over her messy unkempt mane; her golden halo or over her full figure, and to think how her long shirt dress momentarily reminds of his many old robes, and how _good_ she would look with-

He frowns.

Whether or not she picks up on his not-so-unusual behavior, she doesn't indicate regardless. He knows her like the back of his hand, and then some; its' unsettling, how he knows that she's tilting her head at him, wondering if she's done something to upset him. It almost frightens him how he's sure of what she's thinking, what she's going to say next, but he still doesn't acknowledge her.

“Hey. Can't sleep either?” Hotaru says – not quite a whisper, but slightly below normal volume.

Her voice cuts through him like a knife, grating on his nerves, on his _senses_ like the sharpest of blades. It's soothing, strong and that of a young confident woman; it leaves him with a chill down his spine. He says nothing, but she doesn't seem put off – quite the opposite, she looks to have taken it as an indication to sit near him. He still doesn't respond, but she still doesn't seem to give a toss anyway. Thankfully, as if sensing he's just a little colder than usual, of the unavoidable tension in the air, she sits farther on the opposite side of him, making sure to put distance between them. He's internally relieved.

“You know, they say insomnia is actually a marking of a genius. They have too much in their heads that they just _can't_ sleep.”

He doesn't take the bait; he knows her too well: she's making small talk. He presumes that she picks up on his behavior, and he hears shuffling; she tries again.

“Or is it something else? Anything you want to talk about, Utakata?”

He shuts his eyes at the mention of his name, grating his head like nails on a chalkboard.

“Hey,” she says playfully, broken and a tinge of desperate when she sees that he doesn't even _turn_ her way. “come on, what's the matter? Cat got your tongue? If I knew better, I'd say you've been avoiding me these last two weeks.” He feels her hand pressing landing on his shoulder and he doesn't let her continue. He grips her wrist tightly and, without looking, he can feel her jolting back from the shock.

“Stop it.” He says harshly; it's a whisper, but he can see it in her eyes when he turns to her that it cuts her deeper than anything else he's done to her in the past. “You need to _stop_ this. Have you no _shame?_ ” He's painfully aware of the hypocrisy in his statement, in _himself,_ but he can't help but be livid. He's hurt, too. He sees her blink, and he can even see the making of some tears behind those long dark lashes of hers before she gently smiles at him, as if she isn't being held by him in a vice grip.

“W-what are you talking about, Utakata? What's gotten into-”

“ _Don't,”_ he squeezes tighter. “call me 'Utakata'; it's _shisho._ You've never _earned_ the right to call me by my name, Hotaru. That isn't your prerogative.” At this, he can see that it finally dawns on her; but this time, she really is confused.

“I… _What?”_ Her tone is baffled; she doesn't understand.

“Don't act like you don't know how you've been acting; it isn't appropriate and it isn't the least bit flattering. It's unbecoming of you.” It's a blatant lie, but the words are coming out all on their own. Her face is livid and he stares her down. He is surprised when his body is suddenly being jerked forward like a rag doll; she pulls away from him viciously, as if he's burning her and she scowls.

“ _Excuse me?! I don't… What are you-_ Why would you _think_ that I.. that _you..!”_

He rolls his eyes with a slight shake of his head, and he turns away from her. But she's already beaten him to it, and he finds it a mistake to turn away from her when she's in a rage. He often forgets she isn't that young little heiress who chased after him, begging him to be her master. His shoulder is yanked back, forcing him to face her again.

“Don't turn away from me! What in the world is your problem?!”

Immediately, he stands – whether to remind her that he still has a good head on her in height, or to remind _himself_ that he's in control of the situation. “You,” is what he says, and he refuses to expand further. He can see that almost instinctively, she straightens up herself – but her gaze does not waver either. If anything, it's even more fierce.

“You didn't seem to have a problem with me when I bid you goodnight.”

He inhales sharply. “That.. that isn't-”

“ _Yes. Yes it_ _is_ _!_ You didn't seem to have a problem when I treated you when you were sick _,_ or when we watched a movie together, or when we-”

“Hotaru, that's _enough.”_ He raises his voice, but it does little to ease anything. He realizes she has stepped closer, pointing a finger in his direction; accusatory and offending all the same. “You're deluding yourself – _nothing_ is going on betw-”

“And you have the gall to refuse it? As if it means _nothing?_ As if _all this has just been a huge game?”_

“ _I'm_ not the one making _anything_ into a game.” His silent implication does not go unnoticed. But she doesn't relent.

“ _I'm_ not either! Why does it _have_ to be a game? Why can't it possibly be _anything_ else, huh?! Why are you _acting_ this way?” He sees her swallowing the lump in her throat, fighting the urge to not let any tears spill. He knows she wants to make her voice heard, but he wants none of it. “Is it really hard to think, to _consider,_ that maybe I feel something _more?”_

There's a bitter taste on his palate, and memories of them together resurface; he shakes his head, drowning her and the thoughts. “This _isn't_ about me. We both know that, Hotaru – we _both know_ why you've been acting the way you have, and it _isn't_ because of a fabrication on emotions that you don't even _have.”_

She sucks in her teeth. “By all means, enlighten me.”

He narrows his eyes. “I refuse to be an outlet for your pain; I am _not_ a merry little conquest you can just use to evade the harsh truth, Hotaru. I'm not-” He doesn't get to finish; he had been so caught up in his words, in _breaking_ her illusion that he doesn't anticipate a physical retaliation. Most likely, any other woman would have probably slapped him; screamed or shrieked that he's being unreasonable. She had punched him; his cheek throbbing from the impact, and when he looks back at her, he can see the tears are finally flowing silently. He says nothing.

“How dare you.” She hisses. “How _dare_ you tell me to _my face that I-_ that I'm _using you to_ _cope_ _?!_ _How_ _dare_ _you bring_ _Tonbei_ _into our relationship?!_ _You think I don't_ _ **know**_ _what you've_ _ **done,**_ _Utakata?_ I _saw_ you _just_ a few nights ago for _God's sake._ How _dare_ you _deny-_ _”_ She moves in to punch him again, but he catches her fist with another harsh grip – it's his turn to be livid and he is not merciful when he yanks her up so they are at eye level. He knows she's right; but he also knows, now, that to some degree, she has been _cunning._

She knows what she's been doing.

“There is _no_ relationship; there is no _us_.” He says harshly, ignoring the burning pain in his chest; ignoring how, already, he can feel tears trying to worm themselves out of his own eyes. She is left speechless and, for a moment, with her eyes glistening and wide, Utakata is reminded when they had first met; how he'd hurt her repeatedly, and especially when he had slapped her – it's that same look; the guilt is too much for him, and he tells himself, _pleading_ to her that _this_ is the reason why there is no them.

“I love you.”

He has no words, and before he can _process_ the information, her lips are already searing his. He pulls back instinctively, nearly flinching, but Hotaru doesn't relent and she has a hold on the back of his neck. They both don't have serious experience; but her ferocity startles him. And he is startled himself with how much he wants her; so much so, that his hands shake with the internal conflict of _pulling her in_ or _pushing her back._ He finds himself doing neither, instead, somehow, trailing to the feel of her lips. They are warm and soft and _trembling,_ and he doubts that he's anymore composed – it isn't so much of a kiss as it is a _test,_ desperation and _desire;_ she's pressing into him, holding him like he's the only _good_ thing she has, and it's _insane._ He somehow finds the will to gently, but firmly, grab the sides of her head and pull her away, breaking the kiss – for a moment relishing in the softness of her hair between his hands, and they are left slightly panting from being out of breath, from the adrenaline and from other things.

Her gaze is on him, relenting and pouring with her heart as it flows incessantly like rivers. “I love you.” She repeats desperately. But it's wrong. _So_ _wrong_ because he _knows_ she doesn't mean it, not really. She's hurt and emotionally vulnerable – he's the only one around to absorb her pain. He holds her there, not knowing what to do, what to say or what to _feel._ She says it again, whispering it to him and looking at him desperately, most likely trying to _convince herself,_ and each time she does it rings like a dull bell in his head.

With whatever resolve he has, he shakes his head trying to tune her out; trying to n _umb his pain._ “No.. no you don't.” He whispers back, broken and defeated. “Just.. _stop._ _We_ don't… _I_ don't... _”_ He doesn't know how or exactly when he finds the will to let her go, it's all a blur and he's already at the door. He doesn't dare look in her direction because he can _feel_ her gaze boring into his back, no doubt with tears flowing. But she doesn't go after him and she says nothing as he murmurs a _I'm going out for a walk_ under his breath.

Out of her sight, he lets his own tears flow.


	3. her

**ripple  
** _**002 ; her** _

* * *

 It had only been Four months. Four  _damn_ _months_ _._ Why does it feel like the whole thing just happened a week ago? But before she can contemplate the matter any further, she is brought out of her reverie rather abruptly.

"Here, I — _take the papers in my hand!"_ The old woman, Yoko, shuffles papers in Hotaru's face distastefully with a scowl.  _"_ I want this paperwork revised for the upcoming genin class by next week, and get it approved officially. The blasted Harishima's case fucked with this whole system, so we have no choice but to abide to what the Kage wants. Now we have this damn pile of useless kiddy missions to distribute to the kids." They're forms listing the C and D rank missions for the genin, changes that were enforced by her own reign – unlike Konoha, the missions would be part of a system of prerequisites for graduation, as opposed to work after their release from the Acedemy. She would have asked why these documents were delivered to  _her_ hands and not one of the official administrative representatives of the academy because she's just a teacher's assistant, but she knows that the old hag views her as more of an irrelevant receptionist. It's the major reason why she always tries to keep the young woman from actually doing her job, and usually, she defies her word and teaches anyway. She never minded, and it isn't like she would get in trouble; the old hag would behave whenever any of the Kage's people would check progress on the students. But Hotaru doesn't want to argue today, and wordlessly sets the paper down. She doesn't take her eyes away from the papers, instead skimming through the content with her pen. She should be glad,  _excited_ that the system is changing officially – Harishima's case is being  _enforced_  officially! But she doesn't want to think – because her thoughts will be drawn to a certain  _someone who had confirmed that indeed, it had been underway to begin with—_  She doesn't know if she can think about that certain someone without destroying everything in sight or breaking down sobbing all over again.

When she doesn't put up any kind of rebuttal, it earns a confused look from Yoko. "What? No quip? No complaint?" She slams her hand next to her paperwork, prompting the younger woman to look up. "Are you mocking me, girl? Think you're being funny? Think that by giving me the silent treatment, that you're  _better?_ " Her worn face conjures into a downright sneer; suspicious, weary and, most of all, irritated, at her assistant's behavior, she's aware that her behavior is unusual. Naturally, anything the girl does irritates her;  _too much of a foreigner, too_ _ **soft**_ _for Kiri's standards; even Konoha genin would have more backbone_  she'd often say, despite knowing that it didn't do much to get under her skin. At least, not until now.

Hotaru doesn't respond – her mind isn't all that there and not over here either way; her eyes remain glued on the ink, on every crease and fold of the off-white paper, but she doesn't actually digest any of the content. Her mind is such a blur and nothing is willing to  _stick._ Vaguely reminded that Yoko is outright glaring at her, she resists the urge to sigh. "… I just want to do my job,"  _you complain when I'm helping teaching your class, how you don't want me there, and now you're bothering me when I'm_ _ **not?**_ "if you could  _please_ leave me to it, I will be  _glad_  to forward these to the appropriate department." Her words are nearly robotic like; cold and hollow. She just wants time to herself, to not  _think_ and definitely not go home.

Whether it's her distant tone or lack of general interest on  _her,_ Yoko doesn't take kindly to her attitude. Slamming her fist against the desk, she whirls the chair forcibly enough to give the young woman whiplash and lowers herself to eye level with a sneer. An aged finger with a bitten nail nearly touches her nose, and her voice takes on a dangerous low tone. "You think this is  _funny,_ _ **little girl?**_ _You think, that for a damn_ _ **second,**_ _you have the_ _hubris_ _to present yourself in front of me with that attitude?_ I've never liked you – never liked you when you showed your pretty face around these parts, never liked you the next few years you worked here. I don't care  _what_  the Mizukage says about you; you don't  _belong_ here, and you know that damn well! I  **won't**  continue to put up with your negligence and incompetence you  _delusional child!"_

Something in Hotaru freezes when she hears the last two words, and as she finally acknowledges the heaviness in the atmosphere, she begins to notice just how  _exhausted_ she really is. There's pounding  _thuds_  against the base of her head, like she's going to  _explode_  at any given second. Nothing is stable, and she wants nothing more than to shut her eyes; the dull ache in her chest does nothing to ease her state of mind, or her heart – she's had  _enough._ Her hands shake with—  _exhaustion? Sadness? Adrenaline?_ — rage, pure  _incomprehensible_ rage and it  _frightens_ her tremendously. Her heart pounds against her chest, and the only sound she hears is a dull  _ping_ and the muffled  _incessant_ jabber coming out of Yoko's mouth. What happens next is a complete blur in her mind. Because all she can register as time goes on by  _so painfully slowly_ is the fact this time, it isn't only her head and heart that hurt; it's her hands too. She also knows she's ruined her clothes, because when she feels the set of two burly men holding her back like she's some rabid animal, all she sees is  _way too much blood._ It's bound to make a permanent stain, and somehow, this is the fact that makes her sob.

* * *

  _Suspended._ With a capital,  _bloody S_ _ **.**_ Just another weight to carry, that's just  _great._

When Hotaru had been informed by her superiors in the interrogation room after her short stay in the infirmary, it had been regret that she saw crossing their eyes, aside from the disappointment. The incident not only had to be reported to the Mizukage herself for part of a status report, but until  _what_ the woman decided to do with her, Hotaru is put on suspension. For how long? Who knows. When it takes her a while to get  _home,_ she finds  _him_ nearly frantic; it disgusts her to see that he acts like he  _cares._ Almost at the last minute, she realizes that there is a violent tinge of red and puffiness bleeding through his eyes, and whether it's her slightly drugged state from all the medicine, or her absolute bitterness from the night before, she can't help but  _enjoy_ the fact that maybe, just for once, he has  _suffered_ because of her. Not  _for_ her and not for  _losing_ her, but because he's getting a dose of something close to his own medicine. It's a sick, twisted pleasure, but she offers only curt and vague responses to his questions. Once she decides that she's sick looking at his face, she locks herself up in her room and doesn't really come out for the next few days, perhaps only because she just wants his attention more and more like a lovesick puppy. She gives up the charade when she realizes he doesn't, and something in her heart darkens. Only when she decides to peek from the crack of her purposefully left adjacent door and sees that he's nowhere to be found, does she step out to make herself something to ear. It's painfully clear that he's avoiding her. Financial trouble isn't too hard to overcome. They're both smart, and so they've always had a solution for this hypothetical problem. They have enough savings to last them a retirement if they wanted. Possibly a family and even a  _dog._  She snorts bitterly at the thought, and holds her wine bottle close,  _reveling_ the burn of the liquid as it passes through her throat.

She's learned when he comes in and when he departs. She doesn't know what he does, and she angers herself by just thinking about the possibilities, so she doesn't put herself through that torture. But regardless, Hotaru has learned to be a woman of  _routine;_ maybe once upon a time, so long ago, she would have been much too impatient at the concept of a  _schedule_ or a  _routine._ But, now, as a full blown adult, she winces at how  _idiotic_ she used to be.  _Routine_ has helped her on several occasions, and learning the routine of anyone in particular could be their downfall. She made it her absolute mission to learn his throughout the years they've known each other; throughout the time they've  _lived_ together. But after a couple days of this song and dance, when she steps out for her usual cup of tea, her eyes bright, red and bed-ridden, her hair in disarray and her person smelling like something  _that's just a little bit more than plain juice,_ Hotaru realizes she's made a grave miscalculation. When she looks up and their gazes meet, she can  _see_ the instant scrutiny in his narrowed eyes. Like the true shinobi he is, it's like he goes on autopilot. But she reminds herself in that split second that she doesn't come next to  _nothing;_ not anymore. She's a ninja too; and so when her mind  _snaps_ so does her glare, and she all but  _slams_ the kettle down as Utakata begins to get up from his chair. Her heart pounds, but regardless of his questioning, regardless how  _absolutely_ crazy she looks, she stalks back to her room, even wrenching herself away from his grasp and slams the door violently shut. The tea would have tasted disgusting anyway, and so when she hears and  _makes sure_ his presence is gone from their unit, she happily takes a swig of her leftover wine.

 _Last one,_ she thinks. But she knows she won't follow through.

Three days later, and it's a miraculous feat on her end, but she's proud to admit that she's a fighter, not just physically speaking. Hotaru manages to avoid the booze, but best of all, she manages to  _move forward._ It doesn't go unnoticed; she can feel the forlorn gazes in the back of her head when she doesn't look at him, or how her greetings are short and clipped. But she's not too mean, either; when he asks her here she's going off to one quiet morning in that firm, and wavering voice of his, she smiles. It doesn't quite reach her eyes, but she supposes that with perfectly painted lips, it doesn't need to.

"Off to look for work. Someone has to work in this house." There's a cheery ring to her tone, but before he can ask anymore, she's already out. Her grasp tightens on the messenger bag she carries, and she has to restrain herself from biting her lips in uncertainty. Purely deceived by the very notion that she's out looking for work, Hotaru makes a show of herself of puffing her cheeks out like a blowfish, and tapping her heel against the pavement in seeming doubt. Now, who's going to hire a currently suspended twenty something year old ex-kunoichi? Eventually, the day goes off without a hitch, and by the time she comes back, feet worked out and all, she doesn't even pay mind to him. She's handed out at least ten applications; some were babysitting jobs, other vendors, and she even applied for a dog walker.

"How'd it go?" He doesn't raise his gaze up to her as she walks past him, and this is enough to make her pause, blink and give out a forced shrug.

"As well as it could have."

* * *

 She's lost track of the exact time, but she knows it's sometime in the morning when she stumbles through the doors of the apartment.

In her inebriated state, she finds herself to be much more carefree and loose; to hell with that nonsense of  _just one more._ She's a competent, independent young woman, dammit! She can take care of herself, and she doesn't need anyone else for the fact. Having a hard time finding the light switch, she grunts; very unlike her usual demeanor and  _very_ unlike her in general, but it's something she refuses to acknowledge. She's been refusing to acknowledge a lot of things lately and  _you know what?_ _ **F u c kkk**_ _ **i tt;**_ _it's not_ _my_ _damn_ _fault_ _. —_ at least, not entirely hers. Mostly  _his._ Mostly  _Utakata's._ Just the thought of his name makes her want to  _puke._. and she  _almost_ does. Somehow she finds herself well situated above the dish counter; she doesn't know exactly when she turned on the faucet - _the —_ _ **drip drip**_ _of the water is_ _infuriating_ _-_  yet, the only thought that roars through her head is  _why? Why is this happening to_ _her_ _of all people?_ and alright,  _sure okay,_ perhaps she's being  _just a bit_ dramatic and  _maybe she should count her lucky stars that she's not out there_ _starving_ _and has no one to hang on so why—_ except it feels exactly like that. Because the one  _other_ person that she'd normally go to is  _gone_. And the other person that is still  _here,_ breathing with life, wants nothing to do with her. This causes her to retch. Never being one to even look down when she so much as  _spits,_ she shuts her eyes with as much vigor as she does when she tries to block out some nightmare.

— ** _drip drop…_**

— ** _drip…._**

— ** _droppppp…._**

That  _nagging incessant_ from the faucet makes her want to gauge her ears, to  _rip_ her hair from her cranium,  _to bang his head against a —_ _ **ING**_ _ **wall**_ _ **!**_ Lungs are on  _fire_ after greedily heaving as much oxygen as they can. Her dizzied, roaming eyes are sprung open with all her effort  _-and_ _yet_ _, she still can't see what's in front of her-_ and she's panting like she's just gotten out of a fight for her life; in a way, she has. Maybe that's the funny part here. Absentmindedly, she grips the cool steel handle and with what seems to be all her energy, she pulls. She can  _feel_ the gushing of the water and she doesn't know how  _long she_ lets it go on for  _-just enough to make the nasty fluid go away-_ but she doesn't even remember closing it shut _...Whatever. I don't care._ That's the biggest lie she's ever told herself, and she has to chortle at the ridiculousness of it.

Suddenly it's much too  _bright,_ and her eyes, funnily enough, peel  _open_ as opposed to closing  _shut. "...w-wha..?"_ Her own voice is foreign, slurred and very  _so unlike her;_ but like being trapped in some mind control technique, she can only  _hear and see_ herself, a spectator in her own body. There's nothing else she can do.

The startled and  _booming_ "What are you  _doing?_ " hits her like a brick; it's  _annoying_ and infuriating. Maybe she tells him to  _keep it down,_ but she certainly ends up facing him one way or another.

"What's it to  _you?!"_ Tad over dramatic, and could be done without the finger pointing, but Hotaru finds it appropriate. Her voice is a pitch higher, and whine away from being  _screeching._ "I... _I am an_ _adult_ _..."_ -has the floor  _always_ been such a  _rancid_ color? She refuses to live like this, it's  _hideous._ "You..  _you can't t-tell_ _meeeee_ _what to… what to do!"_ A smile in triumph over her  _crystal clear ability_ to get her words across.

"Are you… are you drunk? Why am I even..  _of course,_ you are.  _Why_ are you drunk? Hotaru,  _where have you_ _been_ _. I was about to go_ _look_ _for you; what is the_ _matter_ _with you?!"_

She responds with something close to a sneer, a scoff, and a  _hiccup,_ all packaged into a neat little gift box. "Your voice is annoying. Step off with that… with that  _garbage...you're_ _not_ _my mother..."_ she half means it, but she isn't sure of anything at this point anymore. "..d-don't act like you don't disappear every-"  _—hic_ "-now and again. Or always." Maybe it's her imagination, her  _desire,_ but she sees something of a guilty look to his otherwise blank face.  _Good; he ought to learn some_ _manners_ _._

"Hotaru, look-"

But the sound of her name coming out of  _his stupid mouth_  gets her blood  _boiling._ " _Don't 'Hotaru' me!_ _Fuck you_ _!"_ And in that moment -eyes peeled open, smeared pink lips, looking like a maniac- is the moment she  _breaks_. "Just  **fuck** you!" She says it again and again, so much that she starts want to heave from the word alone.  _We very well_ _could_ _have had you not been so_ _ **fucking**_   _stupid!_ "What's it to you?!  _Why are you acting like you care? How_ _dare_ _you,"_ her lips tremble, slight dribble worming through her lips, and maybe even blood from the sheer strength of clamping her own mouth  _shut_ with her teeth, "….  _how dare you_ _ **reject**_ _me?"_ His lack of a reaction does nothing to placate her. Him not reacting is a sign of him not being invested in  _this…_ in  **them.** The sheer mortification of his rejection, of his  _very action,_ grind her to the core; it's sickening and  _infuriating,_ enough that it allowed her to sober up in slight spurts, however little they lasted. She  _will_ be heard; her blackened, heavily mascaraed eyes sting with her in narrowing them, but the effect is not lost. "I say… I say that I  **love**  you and you…  _oh you—_ have the  _lunacy to walk away?! Like I mean_ _ **nothing**_ _? You horrible, piece of_ _ **garbage!**_ _I should have never—_ _ **this**_ _isn't-"_

" _ **Hotaru,**_ _"_ and she  _realizes_ right in that second, that maybe she isn't the only one who's been  _broken_ these past few months, "That's  _enough!_ You're  _drunk_ and not  _in the right state of mind-"_ His words are wrong,  _wrong, wrong,_ _ **wrong!**_ He's supposed to be  _angry,_ not concerned with her alcohol intake.

" _Stuff that crap!"_ She rises from the counter, though it proves to be faulty; turns out she could be a very convincing  _tightrope act,_ "Why aren't you  _responding?_ Do I mean  _so little to you?! Why are you so heartless."_ The tears fall from her own accord, that sickening  _—drip_ _ **drop,**_ and she trembles, knees quaking  _and running toward him._ She nearly stumbles into him, and the thought repulses as it does bring her comfort, so she leans on a chair instead.  _Why don't you love me?_ But the wretched words don't make it out of her stained lips, and she finds herself being  _pulled_ roughly. Her arm feels like it's going to be pulled from its' socket, and though every fiber in her being is  _screaming_ in rage, she can't find the willpower to fight it.  _Do you think so_ _little_ _of me? Haven't I proven myself to you? Is there someone_ _else_ _? "Are you_ _ **fucking**_ _someone else?!"_ She babbles unreasonably, desperate for a reason; it fills her with even more panic when he doesn't respond. He doesn't even turn to  _look at her._ In that moment, Hotaru hadn't realized just how much her paranoia was in vain. Utakata all but kicks the door open, but he is so caught in all these.. all these  _emotions —_ anger, sadness, paranoia,  _rage, desperate,_ _ **lust,**_ _ **heartbreak**_ \- that he can't conjure up with anything else other than to be rough with her; to shove all the complicated,  _unwanted_ burdens  _away._ And that meant she had to go along with all that baggage, too. Except, she isn't baggage… not like that. He throws her onto the mattress, but he's so  _numb_ to all the tears, to all her  _babble…_ "Utakata,  _please.. please_ _ **don't—**_ "  _don't leave me alone,_ _again_ , _for the love of_ _ **god!**_  But he says nothing, and just as quickly as he had been to violently grab her, he becomes gentle; and she curses herself, her whole entire  _body,_ for having her eyes droop in this moment.

She revels in his finger caressing her face… but she panics when all she hears is, "...I'm  _sorry, but I… I just_ _can't_ _."_ Her throat tightens, and she feels the urge to sob this time.

The last thing she says is " _Why?"_ but she is met with silence, and then her eyes shut, still raw from the tears.

* * *

 Two weeks later, with all the silence in the apartment, and all the tension in the world,  _and the tears that wouldn't cease despite their efforts in the safety of their own_ _privacy_ _;_ neither so much utter as a  _word_ when the packing boxes are set in the corner. Utakata doesn't even bring himself to  _look_  her way and Hotaru makes no motion to try and explain. And in less than a couple more hours, she is gone; the only evidence of her being there is her copy of the key. And he feels  _hollow._ She'd never know that it had only been afterward, he'd responded her unanswered question in the confinement of his own bedroom. "How can I ever be worthy of your love… when you deserve much than what I can ever give you?  _Why don't you_ _see_ _that!"_

He is met with a profound silence.


End file.
